WARNING! This page contains adult material. If you are under 18 years of age, or are offended by adult themes, please leave now.


The Acolyte
Copyright 2007 by Mary Harris [aka redplanetes]

My regards to Cole Porter, who wrote 'I Get A Kick Out Of You'

Chapter 12

Helen came to in the emergency room, sterile alcohol-scented air reviving her as much as the ministrations of terse medics. "How the fuck did I get here?" she tried to mumble, but the tube in her throat strangled the words. The pain had settled to a dull distance, a mountain over her shoulder, but not crashing down over her anymore.

Great, just great... the one place where people don't give a fuck what I want, and they are fiddling with my body! She tried to lift her hand to remove the tube, but her arm felt detached, wandered around in the air drunkenly before flopping against her face. A medic noticed her movement, said curtly, "She's waking up," while taking her wrist in a cold hand, and strapping it down to the table. Helen attempted a growl, but all that came out was a coughing gurgle.

A slightly older medic stepped into her vision, stooping slightly to look in her face. From the louder-than-necessary and somewhat condescending tone, she figured he must be the resident in charge, the only one required to have any bedside manner. "Ms. Murdoch. You're alright, but you need to keep still. We're just stabilizing you right now." He glanced back at the other medics, all busy with their tasks. "Are you in any pain?"

She managed to laugh, just short huffs past the tube. What a stupid question. She rolled her eyes in response, and the doctor frowned slightly, offended. At that same moment, a medic applied tension to her leg, pulling it straight. Helen groaned, her eyes rolling back, and slid into unconsciouness again.

* * * * *

The chase was going beautifully, the man floundering around in the dark tunnels, tripping over arms, legs. His nice suit wasn't so nice anymore; Helen could see in her red beams the jagged tears and scuffs. He turned to look blindly over his shoulder a few times, sweat and grime-streaked face twisted by disbelief and disorientation.

She darted down a side tunnel to race around in front of him, and cut off his path. He was blundering in darkness, it would be easy to circle around.

With no warning, a sensation like knives drove into her leg.

The fierce pain shot lightning-hot through her; she lost control of her muscles and fell headlong. Helen scarcely felt the impact through the suffocating agony, though it began to ebb, ever so slowly. She lay panting, wondering in haze if a monster, a different monster with massive jaws, was clamped to her hip - that's what it felt like.

Finally her mind emerged from the swamp of pain, regaining enough reason to reach for the bottle of painkillers in her back pocket. Even twisting to pull it out sent fresh waves of brittle grinding through her leg, but she managed to get it to her face, and shoved several in her mouth, swallowing hard, unsucessfully. Got to get them down... She fumbled for the flask, nudged aside on the floor. It was difficult to drink from in her position - face down, but she sucked down enough to finally swallow, then relaxed and tried to be patient. Every second pounded by at a snail's pace, mocking her with drawn-out torture.

After a time - she couldn't tell how long it had been - Helen realized she felt numb, the pain had retreated somewhat. She rolled onto her side, and the monster re-awoke, but stayed caged within its territory - her leg. She raised her head to look down at it... it was facing the wrong way. She had to look away just to keep from throwing up. It added up now. Her leg was broken. And not just broken, but shattered.

That damn doctor told me this would happen sooner or later... I just hoped it would be later. And he hadn't told her it would happen, only that it was a possibility, if she continued to ignore it. She'd hated the alternatives he had spelled out, though, decided to let it run its course. Did I do the wrong thing? Better a maybe than being overmedicated, a surgical guinea pig, an invalid at fifty-two. But now it's down to that anyway. I'm just screwed.

She wondered if her monster would kill her, now that she wasn't going to be any fun anymore. Definitely wouldn't be running, or chasing, maybe even walking. In hindsight, she recalled the monster had been struggling with its instincts last night. Have I been an idiot, not seeing what's going on right in front of me? A realization began to take form.

It only hunts down those who smell like food. It hunted me down, at first anyway, until I turned the tables. Therefore... I must have smelled like food.

When she'd asked it why it didn't eat her, all those years ago, its answer was that she was a predator, too, not a prey animal. But when a predator can no longer hunt... they become the hunted. The thought didn't sadden her - it certainly would be a better way to die than in a car crash, or from cancer. Being stuffed and mounted on its wall would be fine by me, we had some good times, and I know it would give me a good pose. She smiled at the image that sprang to mind. I hope Mena won't take it badly. I think she'll understand.

Helen was actually starting to feel good now. Happy, excited, waiting for the monster to come and complete her exit. Her body floated alongside as an afterthought. A song bubbled up from her throat, and she crooned it to the echoing tunnel.

"I... get no kick... from champagne! Mere... alcohol... doesn't thrill me at all, so tell me, why should it be true... that I get a kick... out of you..."

As if on cue, her dark creature came trotting out of the shadows, bent over her. She blinked sluggishly. "Hey sexy. Godda special place f'r a broken toy?" Her lips seemed to get stuck as she spoke. The monster crouched close, sniffing at her, zeroed in on the crushed leg. "You're hard on us humans, ya know..." She had to work hard to get the words out, felt like she was shouting, but her voice came out barely audible. The red illumination faded, darkness swallowed her.

* * * * *

Mena hated this place, hated being here, hated that she'd brought her aunt here. There had been no choice, though. She had carried Aunt Hel in across her back, staggering in through the emergency room doors while the monster drove off to park. At least they hadn't made her wait, had taken Helen immediately, and sat Mena down in an empty treatment room to get the pertinent information.

"She's my aunt, she was in the basement and I found her like this. I think she was there for a while, she took some pain pills..." The nurse wrote everything down with painfully slow precision. "Listen... is she gonna be ok? What the hell happened to her? Is her leg really broken?"

"The doctor will be in to speak with you in a while. Just wait here, please." With that the nurse coolly turned and walked out; the door hissed shut behind her.

Mena paced around the small, odorless room, feeling trapped in an enemy stronghold. Everything her eyes landed on was wrong, screamed the hubris of technology and progress. She desperately wanted to run back outside, into the open air of the night, but at the first step towards the door, she stopped. Can't abandon Aunt Hel to this place, alone. And I'm the one that brought her here, she's more at the mercy of these fucks than I am.

Guilt began to eat at her. She's gonna hate me for bringing her here, but what else could I do? There was no alternative, and the frustration of being caught in such a hateful situation boiled in her. To crumble at the first stroke, to admit dependence on modern science and society... it was humiliating.

The door opened abruptly, and a tall middle-aged woman swept in; she wore cheery scrubs and a stethoscope, a name tag on her chest. She glanced at her clipboard before holding out her hand. "Mena? I'm Dr. Allen." Mena took the hand reluctantly, studying this woman with a distrustful eye.

"Please have a seat." Dr. Allen had a sharp voice that expected obedience. "I understand you brought your aunt in." Mena nodded, waited. "She's in recovery at the moment, doing well. We'll move her to a ward in an hour or so."

"Ms. Murdoch has multiple subtrochanteric fractures of her right femur..." Reading the blank stare on the girl's face, she looked down her nose, explained. "You aunt has a broken hip. Unusual in a woman her age, and the damage was severe enough that reconstructing the bone will allow for minimal functionality. Fortunately, there appears to be little damage to the nerves and blood vessels in the region, though she may suffer from loss of sensation for a time." The doctor paused in her stream of medicalese.

Mena blinked. "What are you saying? Her leg is so badly broken she won't be able to use it? How can that happen?" It made her sick to even hear this.

The doctor gave a small, impatient sigh. "Did your aunt never discuss her condition with you? I understand you are close..."

"What condition? All she ever said was that her hip was sore... I figured it was arthritis or something."

"According to her records, Ms. Murdoch was diagnosed with Paget's disease many years ago, and has been refusing any treatment other than pain management."

Mena shook her head slowly, not understanding; the doctor continued, "It's a localized degenerative bone disease. Normally not so destructive if it's treated, but in your aunt's case, the affected bone tissue became highly brittle. She was cautioned about the risks, but chose not to undergo treatment."

Of course she would never mention this to me. "And what did the treatment involve?" Mena had a feeling her aunt had good reason to be so stubborn.

"A series of surgeries to keep the abnormal bone growth in check, and a regimen of medication to strengthen the bone. Some of the treatments would have involved bi-weekly injections into the bone itself, but she could've had those done at her local physician's office. Very careful exercise to avoid overstressing damaged tissue was recommended."

The doctor paused. "She hasn't been running, has she?" She cast an accusatory look at Mena.

"Um, ..." Mena was caught off guard in her plummeting descent into the reality of the situation. She fumbled to pull herself together; she had to be ready for the uncertain near future, ready to grab its reins and take control. 'The Unexpected!' was her aunt's battle cry, after all. She took a deep breath, sat up straight. "Well, what happens next, then?"

"We've scheduled a surgery for first thing tomorrow morning, as soon as the regular surgical staff arrives. It has to be done right away, to decrease the risk of further damage and clotting. That surgery will stabilize what's left of the femur. They'll install some hardware as well, to provide rudimentary support during the healing." The doctor pursed her lips slightly. "Normal hip replacement surgery is simply not an option at this point. Your aunt's condition progressed to a degree that it caused too much damage to both femur and socket. There's just not enough good tissue left with which to work."

Mena steeled herself for the next question. She looked straight into the doctor's eyes, demanding an honest answer. "Will she be able to walk?" She almost didn't want to know, in case the truth was a horrible "no".

"Well, if the surgery passes without complications, she will be able to begin physical therapy in a few days. However, without a series of prosthetic implants, she will never be able to bear weight on the leg, free of external support." Dr. Allen flipped through the papers in her clipboard, came to one covered in tiny print. "Your aunt is a retired librarian, I see? I'm sure she would qualify for assistance..." Mena ignored the subtle slight. "If Ms. Murdoch will agree to sign herself up for InsureUS Plan A, we can help her continue to live a normal life."

The derisive laughter which burst from Mena's throat brought the doctor's steely glare to attention.

The health care reforms of the last couple of decades had resulted in an uneasy compromise: everyone could get health care, but only if you were willing to either take the bare necessity or sign yourself up for government research. The three plans offered were Plan C, for those who had money to pay for part of their own care; Plan B, the bare-bones treatment for survival, for those who could not afford it; and Plan A, in which the government would finance better treatment options in exchange for the right to choose the treatment. Basically, you lost your own say in your health care. It had already become a major source of medical research subjects.

"My aunt's life is neither normal, nor would she ever agree to be a guinea pig."

Dr. Allen raised an eyebrow, narrowing her eyes at this scruffy young rebel. "Well. I'll talk with her myself when she awakens, and see what she thinks. Perhaps this event will have changed her perspective, don't you think?"

"Fine, ask her. But she won't be as nice about it."

The woman stood, making clear that the discussion was at an end. "You are welcome to visit your aunt tomorrow afternoon. She'll be recovering from surgery during the day, but should be awake later on, though she'll be in need of rest. I suggest you keep your visit brief, and not overexcite your aunt." They shook hands, the chilly ritual of unspoken understanding between two new opponents.

* * * * *

Mena trudged to the parking lot, heaving great breaths of mingled relief and trepidation. Aunt Hel, out of commision for... who knows how long. What a god-awful thing to happen to her. She spotted the ancient rusty bulk of the monster's truck far off in a pool of darkness. And now... now I guess all we can do is go home.

Exhaustion from unexpected anxiety ate at her. She reached the truck, and tapped twice on the driver's side door. It opened, the darkness within adorned by shifting shadows and the rustling of movement. The monster's savage face appeared. It was chewing, swallowing; Mena saw the headless body lying across the creature's lap.

"She has to stay here for now." Mena sighed, resigned and bone-tired. "Let's go." The creature turned to stare at the hospital for a long moment, then stretched out a bony hand and lifted her up by the arm, set her in the cab beside the cooling corpse. The truck roared to life and backed out, leaving a space empty of all but a dark puddle, congealing on the asphalt beside the next car.

* * * * *

Helen swam in an inky ocean. It felt thick, cold, gel-like, and she struggled to move through the murk. The ooze pulled at her limbs; her arms wouldn't respond, her legs were sucked at and stretched, lengthening grotesquely into the distance. She gathered her strength and kicked hard, willed herself to the surface; a matter of deciding to survive.

She felt her skin again, the cool air of a hospital room, the weight of sheets and a thin blanket. Helen sucked in breaths, trying to clear her head, to remember what was going on. The memory returned like an unwanted suitor, and she moaned, frustrated with the unpleasant truth. A warmth and a movement of air nearby prompted her to open her eyes.

A nurse in green scrubs was checking her IV, writing down the readings on various monitors. A sudden spike in heart rate made her glance at the patient; seeing the hooded but focused eyes, she bent closer. "Ms. Murdoch, can you hear me?"

Helen croaked at first - the tube was gone but her throat was dry. "Of course I can hear you. I'm not deaf." She struggled to lift her head, look down. If they took my leg off I'll kill every last one of them... But the leg was there, encased in a rig of straps to keep it immobile. "Where's Mena?" Hope she didn't kill anyone... yet.

"Your niece, the girl who brought you in?" the nurse asked, and Helen nodded once. "We sent her home a couple of hours ago. She'll be in to visit you tomorrow..." A nervous look passed over the nurse's face; she glanced at the door and back to Helen. Bending closer, she confided, "I was in the ER when you came in. I saw..." She struggled to find her words, lowered her voice to a whisper. "Do you need a rape kit, Ms. Murdoch?"

Helen raised an eyebrow very slowly.

The nurse tried to rescue her question. "They had to remove your pants, and I saw the... the scratches, and bruises, and... what appeared to be some rather nasty bites." She swallowed, shocked at her own frankness. "Looks like you've had... rough treatment."

An abrasive laugh bubbled from Helen's mouth, filling her lungs with vigor and waking her up fully. "Ahhh, heh hehh. What's the matter, don't you like it rough sometimes?" She winked, still chuckling. The nurse's face turned a bright red. Helen managed to level her tone. "Don't get your panties in a wad. Unless one of those doctors stuck their finger up my ass while I was under, then no, I don't need a rape kit." Impossibly, the nurse's face flushed deeper, and she turned, hurried out of the room.

"That's right, run away," Helen grumbled after her. "Run away while I can't chase you."

End of Chapter 12


The Acolyte and illustrations Copyright 2007 by Mary Harris [aka redplanetes]
~plagarists will be flayed alive~


redplanet@trinidadusa.net



650